


In with the New

by lea_hazel



Series: Decline and Fall [10]
Category: Seven Kingdoms: The Princess Problem (Visual Novel)
Genre: Community: 7kppafterdark, F/M, Poor Life Choices, Power Dynamics, Revaire, Secret Relationship, Teasing, Unhealthy Relationships, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-08 14:16:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13459998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lea_hazel/pseuds/lea_hazel
Summary: Verity, Princess of Arland and her incredibly complicated relationship with her soon-to-be father-in-law. First part is setup, second part is the dirty bit.





	1. The Portrait Gallery

The new palace in Starfall City, so called because its construction was completed less than half a century ago, had all the amenities expected of a modern royal residence. A ballroom, a receiving hall, a vast library and any number of bedrooms, all dressed and furbished in excellent style. The Old Palace, the former imperial residence, was more of a historical monument, built in a style far outdated and lacking many of the comforts that the modern aristocrat took for granted. Nevertheless, though many royal functions were held in the new palace, the Old Palace served as the residence of the royal family, and held the throne room where the King received petitioners.

Verity was installed in her rooms in the Old Palace almost as soon as she arrived on Revaire's shores, and didn't get a good look at the new palace until almost two weeks later, when her new sister graciously offered to give her a personal tour.

"It would be my pleasure," said Gisette, with bright eyes and a snow-white smile. "We can make an outing of it, if you like. I'll invite Roxana and Heloise."

Verity matched the Princess's smile with her own, as best she could. "That sounds delightful."

They'd spent a long, fraught afternoon walking the length and breadth of the building, admiring the architecture and exchanging pointed comments. Gisette's two lackeys were hard-pressed to keep up with them, and Verity wasn't quite certain why she had brought them along, unless it was to accentuate the fact that, two weeks in, Verity still had no social circle of her own to speak of. This was sadly true, though it was not for lack of invitations or social engagements. She had been introduced to so many young aristocrats she could hardly recall all their faces, but something about Starfall City's social scene left her with a bad taste in her mouth. Somewhere in this city, she knew, there had to be someone with enough wits in their head to have a proper conversation. She just hadn't found them yet.

Gisette concluded their tour in the hall of portraits, before they were to return to the Old Palace and dress for dinner. The Queen of Revaire, naturally, believed that her family ought to dress themselves as if for a state dinner every day of the year. She'd allowed Verity to discover this demand in a rather roundabout way, which had almost made for a fatally embarrassing faux pas. Standing in the hall of portraits, with rows and rows of Revairian monarchs staring down at her, Verity clenched and unclenched her fists, breathing silent, measured breaths. She stood before the coronation portraits of the new royals, the last in a long line, looking up at faces already so familiar to her, but twenty years younger.

There was something odd about these portraits. No, there was more than one thing about them that rubbed her the wrong way. For one thing, the hall of portraits was the only place in Revaire that she had seen, where the memory of the previous royal family had not been totally erased. Perhaps the Queen had thought that removing the portrait of the dead King, or those of his ancestors, would create an unsightly gap the room's neat arrangement. Whatever the reason, his image was still hanging on the wall, dark-eyed, face lined and grave. Verity felt morbid staring up at him, and passed by his painting rather quickly. Neither did she linger much over his ancestors, only a cursory glance to make sure she could match a name and date to every face. Katyia's portrait wasn't there, of course, but it wouldn't have been hanging there before the coup, either. She'd never been Queen, after all.

The other strange thing was in the two newest portraits. Everything Verity had seen since her arrival told her that the royals, and the Queen in particular, had a taste for the ostentatious. Though the Old Palace was ancient and austere in its architecture compared to the city's more modern mansions, its interior was appointed in a style so extravagant as to be almost gaudy, with more expense than taste. In her coronation portrait, though, the young Queen was shown wearing a cream-colored gown with a simple cut and almost no ornamentation. Even her hands were bare, and her head adorned with a thin, unset gold circlet. Verity had trouble imagining the Queen accepting such a plain outfit in good temper. She could only conclude that the austerity of the portrait was a reflection on the state of Revaire's finances in the immediate aftermath of the coup, and noted to herself to avoid the subject around the royal family, or anyone who might be inclined to share their views.

Which was everyone, really, she had learned.

Hyperion's portrait shared the stark quality of his wife's, though he was dressed in black and wore a more ornate crown, set with sapphires and diamonds. Despite their plainness, the costumes only emphasized both royals' dramatic looks, the Queen with her hair the color of dark golden honey and vividly blue eyes, and the King, who shared the extreme pallor of his son and daughter, fair-skinned with white-blond hair. At least the portrait painter was not so talented as to capture the discomfiting quality of his piercing gray eyes. Still, Verity found that she avoided them even as she examined the rest of the portrait's details with a discerning eye.

Past the last two portraits were two blank spaces, empty frames waiting for their contents. Gisette had laughed when she showed them to her, a light sound like the tinkling of small bells, which did nothing to hide the frosty amusement in her eyes.

Now she stood under those same spaces, months later, they were empty. The frames had been taken away to be fitted with their contents, and the portraits were complete, only waiting to be unveiled. These were not coronation portraits, of course. Those would come later. Perhaps. But for now the King and Queen of Revaire were still very much alive, and so they were only wedding portraits, commissioned as a promise for the stable future that no one really believed Revaire would have, Verity included.

Verity didn't need to have the likeness before her eyes to see it in her mind's eye. She had sat for it, after all, for hours on end, while seamstresses had put the final touches on her wedding clothes. Every detail of it, white crepe ruffles, rich brocade and the gold-shot ripples of the heavy silk skirt, not to mention the jewelry and the coronet that came with it, which had pinched angry red marks into her scalp when she'd first had it fitted. But of course, regardless of comfort, she could hardly refuse.

She took one last look at the empty space where the portrait would hang and turned to walk back out of the room, sparing nary a glance to the likeness of Hyperion when she passed by it. She had no time for him today. There was too much to get done, and only a few days left in which to do it. Six months of planning and plotting since she had landed on these shores, and her schemes were finally coming to fruition. If she'd thought she was in danger before, now Verity knew she was truly stepping into the lion's den, eyes open and all.


	2. The Wedding Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dirty bit. Not so much sex as a lot (a lot!) of teasing.

Verity’s wedding day, like many of the most important days in her life, would mark itself in her memory as a day of hard work, anxiety and fatigue. After the summit, she thought she would be able to take such days in stride. She was no stranger, after all, to high-stakes battles fought in ballgowns and dancing slippers. And everything she’d fought for all those long weeks would come to fruition when she assumed her position as Crown Princess of Revaire. 

It was exhausting. She was very ready to let her maids peel her out of the many pieces of her elaborate wedding gown, and finally go to sleep. 

She couldn’t do that, of course. She knew that she couldn’t. It was, in fact, one of the first things she had learned about herself and the world.  _One day_ , her mother had told her,  _you will be wedded, and wedded women have duties_. She’d easily managed to avoid thinking of it all day, what with all the people she had to greet and the intense concentration required to avoid tripping over her own skirt train. When she could no longer avoid the subject, she slipped away quietly and retreated to her dressing chamber. 

The room was as she’d left it, except the vanity table had been put in perfect order, which it certainly was not that morning when she left. To one side was the dress form her gown would go on once she’d been extracted from it. If, that is, her maids ever showed up. At that moment they were nowhere to be seen, and Verity felt unreasonably irritated at their absence. Would she have to undress herself? She wasn’t certain that she could reach to unlace her shoes with all the folds of her skirt interfering. 

Well, she could do very little of anything, encased from tip to toe in brocade and rustling silk. Even down to her fingertips. Her now mother-in-law had insisted quite primly that a bridal outfit absolutely required gloves. 

“I dismissed your maids,” said a voice somewhere behind her, “if you’re wondering.” 

Verity spun around to face the door as quickly as she could given her constrained circumstances, pressing a hand to her chest. 

“You don’t look like my husband,” she said lightly, to cover up her alarm. “Well, no. I suppose you do, actually.” 

He laughed. 

“Why, exactly,” asked Verity, “did you dismiss my maids?” 

“I thought we could have a moment to talk,” said Hyperion. 

He shut the dressing room door behind him and advanced on her position with a few long strides. 

“I don’t expect to be alone here for long, you know,” said Verity pointedly. 

Unmoved by her words, Hyperion took her hand and turned it over, palm up. 

“The gloves are really excessive,” he said. 

“The gloves were not my idea,” she replied. 

“Let’s get rid of them, then,” said Hyperion. 

He immediately took up the task, flicking open the carved ivory buttons at the wrist of her sleeve, peeling back the heavy brocade to expose the edge of a kid glove and a fingerbreadth of skin. Her olive complexion stood out against the soft cream color of the jacket. When he ran his thumb over the exposed skin Verity had to suppress a shiver, until he peeled back the fabric a little more and pressed a kiss to her wrist. 

“What are you doing?” she asked. “This is a terrible idea.” 

“I do what I like,” he said. “You should know that by now, little princess.” 

She hated it when he called her that, not that she’d ever said as much to him. Given the perversity that characterized their interactions up til now, she felt sure that would only encourage him. 

“Stop me if you like,” he said when she didn’t reply, and began to pull the glove off her hand, tugging at one finger after the other. 

Verity sucked in a sharp breath, trying and failing to keep her breathing steady. He dropped the glove carelessly to the floor and kissed her open palm, making her heart stutter.  _Stop me if you like_. Her blood was heating up inside her skin in a way most uncomfortable, but she couldn’t wish him to stop. Not for anything, not right now. When her let go of her left hand, she offered the right one to him and he laughed again, a low and dangerous sound. 

Hyperion paused, looking down at her from his vantage. Then he took her offered hand and pulled her up from her seat towards him. The unexpected energy of his movement unbalanced her and she teetered a moment before bracing her free hand against his chest. 

“There you are,” he said. “Isn’t that better?” 

“I’ll feel better when I’m out of these pinching shoes,” said Verity. 

“Let’s begin with this,” he replied, and applied himself to removing her other glove. 

With both hands bare, it took all her willpower not to put her hands around his neck and wring it, or pull him closer to her. He had the advantage of height on her, which never failed to irritate her, and he used it very comfortably. Now he batted her hands aside easily and ran one finger over the pristine white ruffles of her blouse, down to where her bodice was buttoned. The buttons he managed to unfasten one-handed, cupping her face with the other to try and distract her with a kiss. It worked, too, damn him. Before she could quite gather her wits, always an exercise in futility when the two of them were standing in the same room, he had pushed the jacket off her shoulders and it crumpled to the floor in a heap of cream-colored brocade. 

“You make me crazy,” he whispered in her ear as he ran his hands down the bare skin of her arms. 

Verity huffed out a small, breathy laugh. “I suppose,” she started to say, stopped to draw in a shuddering breath and went on. “I suppose I needn’t ask anymore if you’re insane when you do things like this.” 

“Is that a complaint?” asked Hyperion, straightening to his full height. 

“What, exactly, is your objective with this little exercise?” she asked back. “Any minute now,  _your son_  will be up the stairs and through that door,” she indicated the door separating them from the bedroom, “looking for his bride. What do you expect him to find?” 

“His bride, one presumes,” said Hyperion sharply. “You did agree to marry him, didn’t you?” 

“I did,” said Verity. 

“Actually,” he went on, “I believe the marriage was your idea to begin with.” 

“I did not, I assure you,” said Verity, “plan on  _this_.” Her broad gesture encompassed the two of them, still pressed together against her vanity table and in a state of unmistakable dishevelment. At least she was. Hyperion, curse him, looked just as crisp and fresh as ever. 

“Would you like to finish undressing by yourself, Princess Verity?” asked the King of Revaire. 

She would not have liked that, in fact. She just didn’t want to say so. 

“I can’t untie my own stays,” she admitted. 

He was smiling now, and it was infuriating. 

“They’re quite labyrinthine, I assure you,” said Verity tartly. 

“I have no doubt,” he said. “The entire ensemble resembles a riddle set to the hero of an epic saga to test his wits.” 

“You’re not the hero of this piece, I assure you,” said Verity, looking away. 

“Sentimental,” he said. 

He cupped her face again, turning her face towards him with both hands to kiss her. It was a slow and tender kiss. It was exactly the sort of kiss that worried her most, but the blood singing under her skin paid no heed to her concern and she could feel heat pooling low in her body, slow and treacherous. Her body curved towards him without volition. She curled her hand around the back of his neck and pressed against him, threading her fingers in his hair. She tugged on his hair, pulling back from his kiss breathlessly. 

“Let go,” she said, dropping her hand from his neck. 

“What is it?” 

“Unlace me,” said Verity, turning her back on him. 

His hands felt warm running down her back, even through her blouse and corselet. He settled near her waist, where her voluminous skirts were held close by a series of complicated hooks. She could hear the soft metallic snap of each one opening, until the heaped layers of gold-shot silk slumped in a pile around her stockinged legs. Just as she was trying to puzzle how to step out of the mountain of silk without damaging the delicate material, she felt her feet leave the floor and let out an undignified squeak. 

“Put me down!” she said immediately. “What are you doing?” 

“Rescuing you from your skirts, I think,” he said. “Now, turn around again. Didn’t you say you wanted me to unlace you?” 

Verity turned her back on him again, leaning her palms flat on the surface of her vanity table for balance. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a complicated arrangement held by a small army of gilded hairpins, or at least it had been at the start of the day. Now the complicated arrangement was looking decidedly wilted, and heavy coils of hair rested against the back of her neck. She could see Hyperion’s face over her shoulder in the looking glass before her, and she could feel his fingertips searching the mess of curls for the laces that held together her ruffled blouse. 

“Arms up,” he said, once he had managed to unlace them. 

She complied, and he pulled the scrap of fabric over her head and tossed it aside. Instead of setting to work on the laces of her corselet, though, Hyperion leaned forward and wrapped one arm around her waist, pressing her back to his chest. Leaning in, he held her hair aside with his free hand and kissed her neck. Verity could practically feel herself melting. It was aggravating to admit how easily he could provoke her, and now she was certainly... provoked. That indecent sound, for example, was undoubtedly her own moaning. If he kept it up, she would end her wedding night by begging him to banish her husband to Skalt and fuck her right then and there. 

“Oh, stop,” she said, her voice more husky than she would have liked. “I can hardly breathe in this thing. Get it off.” 

In response he only pressed his face into the crook of her neck and said, “Verity.” 

Even the way he said her name was provoking. Really, she would have to wring his neck sooner or later, but she absolutely could not bring herself to do it before she could feel him inside of her. And that was out of the question until after her wretched wedding night was dispensed with, so he had a day and night’s reprieve at least. Not that he deserved it. 

Verity sighed a long, shivery sigh and said, “Please.” 

“You ask so nicely,” said Hyperion, the words whispering against the sensitive skin of her neck. 

“Please,” she said again, beginning to worry that she wasn’t certain what she was asking him to do. 

Well, she knew what she  _wanted_  him to do, but that would have to wait. 

“Please what?” 

_Fuck me. Fuck me._  “Please,” said Verity, “just unlace my corselet and let me out of the vile contraption.” 

“If you like,” he said, and released his hold around her waist, straightening immediately. 

The absence of the heat of his body, abruptly detached, let the cold air brush against her back. She shivered, and took a deep breath when she felt the press of the stays against her ribs let up. The stiff corselet expanded with her breaths, leaving a small gap between the fabric and her skin when she exhaled. She sighed with relief. 

“I hope I don’t have marks on my skin,” she muttered. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.” She turned around and started wriggling to loosen the offending garment. “Help me with this.” 

“Please?” he said. 

“If you insist.” 

He frowned at her. “It’s not like a well-bred Arland princess to ask for something without saying please,” he scolded, “and you say it so prettily you can’t begrudge me wanting to hear it again.” 

“I’m a Revaire princess now,” said Verity. “Didn’t you know?” 

He kissed her again, then, another one of those dangerously tender kisses that he reserved for the least appropriate times. 

When he let her go, he said, “You won’t be a Revaire princess until this night is over.” 

“Then you had best get to work,” said Verity. “Before we run out of time, you know.” 

He obliged, helping her loosen and then pull off the long, stiff corselet that extended from the top of her breasts to just over her hips. Without it, she was left with just a plain white shift and stockings. And her awful, pinching shoes, which she only just now realized she’d never gotten around to taking off. He was still fully clothed, of course, and not even much creased. It was infuriating, and she would have fully indulged her fury if he didn’t just then pull her back against him. Through the thin fabric of her shift, there was not much that she could hide from him. 

For once, though, there wasn’t much he could hide, either. He clearly wanted to stay, kissing her lips and her neck again and again, even now that the flimsy pretext for his presence was depleted. She moaned when he scraped his teeth over the skin of her throat. She should pull away, she knew, and send him out, but couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. It was getting late. One or the other of them would have to do the sensible thing, and soon. Not that she expected much by way of consequences for Hyperion, if indeed they were caught. The Queen would not be pleased, but the regime they had installed did not empower women against their husbands, most especially not when the husband in question was King. 

Much like Verity herself, she had, really, only one recourse. 

“Your wife will murder you if we are seen like this,” she said. 

“Oh?” said Hyperion. 

“I dare not even contemplate what she would do to me.” 

He ran his hands blithely down her sides, then up again, catching the hem of her shift. Up and up, stroking her thighs as he bared them. Verity’s heart pounded, and her breath caught in her throat. She spread her thighs just slightly, and felt him slide one hand around and up her inner thigh, the tip of his thumb just brushing her opening. She bit down on her lip to hold herself back from begging, a usual ritual for them, and her breath hitched when he teased her with light fingers. She was wet, very wet, and very in danger of begging him to stay. 

“Oh, stop,” she said breathily. “It’s now or never.” 

“What?” he asked. 

“Leave,” she said, her voice firmer than her mind, and both of them quite wobbly. “Leave now.” 

He left. 

The door shut behind him with a gentle click, and Verity stood for a moment, ordering her breathing. Then she sat down hard on the chair of her vanity table. Slowly she unlaced her shoes and untied the stays of her stockings. She went about the small room, gathering the heaps of fabric that had been discarded all over, straightening them out and hanging them neatly, to keep them whole and safe. She placed her shoes side by side at the foot of the vanity, and rolled up the fine white stockings, too. Then she sat back down and applied herself to dismantling her monstrous coiffure, pulling out one pin after another, until the construction was reduced to curls tumbling over her neck. 

She was only about halfway through when she heard the click of a door opening and looked up. A tall, unmistakable figure was silhouetted in the doorway. In the candlelight that spilled in from the other room, she thought she must look a fright. Sitting there in a plain white shift, her face flushed and her hair half pulled down. She was still very aroused. If she didn’t get herself fucked soon, she thought she might lose her mind. 

“Hello, husband,” she said. 

Jarrod took another half-step into the room, enough that the light from the bedroom could fall over him, too. 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” said Verity. 

“I can see that,” said her husband. “Come on, then.” 

A twist or rage rose up in her, but she shoved it mercilessly down, deep into the abyss where she kept all of her bitterness and disappointment. She needed to get fucked, after all, and here she had the perfect fucking candidate. She reached across the vanity for the folded silk robe that was waiting there for exactly this opportunity, a tool of seduction left forgotten in the fray. 

“Leave it,” said Jarrod hoarsely. 

Instead he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to her feet, and through the door. Her hair was still mostly done up, she recalled. The little gold pins would probably end up lost in the pillows, or something. Fortunately they weren’t especially unique pieces, and could be replaced if they couldn’t be recovered. It could wait for tomorrow morning. It could wait until she was Crown Princess, and the world would be ready to bend to her whims, instead of forever forcing her to be the one who bends. 


End file.
